


Imperative

by often_adamanta



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), But Otabek Altin likes it, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Hair Braiding, Hair Brushing, Hand Jobs, M/M, Not Beta Read, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Yuri Plisetsky is a Brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 15:43:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11535321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/often_adamanta/pseuds/often_adamanta
Summary: “What am I going to do with you?” Yuri asks.It’s clearly rhetorical, but Otabek answers, “Whatever you want,” and gets to watch Yuri’s eyes darken.





	Imperative

“Comb out my hair,” Yuri orders. 

Otabek blinks. He’d been absorbed, reading, and hadn’t heard Yuri get out of the shower. He takes note of his page number and sets his book aside. Yuri extends his hand, and Otabek takes the comb from where it’s wedged between Yuri’s middle and ring fingers. 

Yuri spins around and sits with his knees folded up, the perfect height for Otabek to reach his head. 

Otabek rests the comb on the arm of the couch and starts by gathering up the towel wrapped around Yuri’s shoulders and gently squeezing out the water dripping from the ends. He runs the towel over Yuri’s head until his hair is damp instead of soaking wet and then picks up the comb again. 

Yuri makes a pleased sound when the comb scratches lightly against his scalp. “Are you thinking about your theme for next season?” Yuri asks. 

“Yes,” Otabek says, carefully teasing out a tangle. 

“Tell me,” Yuri says. 

Otabek does. 

“Don’t limit yourself,” Yuri warns. His hair is neat and smooth by now, and Otabek is drawing the comb through it for the way it makes Yuri’s shoulders drop and spine loosen. “Just because they call you the Hero of Kazakhstan doesn’t mean you have to keep doing military shit.” 

“I know,” Otabek says, “The style plays to my strengths.” 

Yuri snorts. “Ballet might not suit you, but I’ve seen you dance, Beka. I’ve seen you skate. Do what inspires you.” 

“Okay,” Otabek says. “What about you?”

“Ugh, don’t ask,” Yuri says, and even though he can’t see it, he knows Yuri’s face is screwed up in disgust. “Do you know that ‘creative differences’ is actually listed in Yakov’s and Lilia’s divorce papers? I didn’t get why until now, and I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Otabek hums and pulls off all the loose hair stuck in the comb’s teeth, rolling it into a little ball and putting it on top of his book to be thrown away. 

“Just a braid this time,” Yuri says, pulling a hair tie off his wrist and handing it to Otabek over his shoulder. 

Unlike when Otabek first met him, Yuri’s hair is now long enough to tumble down his back. It makes the simple plait easy. Even the shorter pieces that fall around his face are long enough to be captured and neatly tucked away, although often Yuri will separate them so they hang down, a curtain of hair to hide behind. 

Otabek wraps the hair tie around the end of the braid and lets it fall down against Yuri’s neck and shoulders. 

Yuri shakes his head like he always does, testing to see if the braid will hold, and then stands again. He throws the towel on the the chair across the room, balled up so that it won’t dry but will get the seat all wet, and then climbs into Otabek’s lap. 

“Kiss me,” Yuri orders, swaying in close. 

Otabek does. 

It’s a simple press of lips at first, and even as the kiss goes on, multiplies, Yuri keeps it teasingly light. Otabek follows his lead, enjoying the sly smile on Yuri’s lips that appears whenever they break apart for a split second. He brings a hand up and traces the edge of Yuri’s jaw with his thumb, resting his fingers feather-soft against the thin skin beneath his ear and down his throat. 

Yuri hums, pleased, and kisses him harder, opening his lips with a flicker of tongue. 

Otabek opens up for him in turn, but Yuri pulls back, running his thumb over Otabek’s lips where they’re red and wet. 

“Bed,” Yuri decides. He grabs Otabek’s hand from where it’s still resting on his neck and scrambles out of Otabek’s lap, pulling Otabek after him. 

The bed is only a few steps away from the couch in Yuri’s tiny studio apartment, so it’s a quick trip. Yuri slides onto his back, the braid Otabek put in streaming out onto the pillows and yanks Otabek down against him. 

He lands with a knee between Yuri’s legs, bracing his hands on the mattress to keep from face-planting in Yuri’s chest. Yuri laughs, wicked, and he’s smiling when Otabek looks at him. 

“What am I going to do with you?” Yuri asks. 

It’s clearly rhetorical, but Otabek answers, “Whatever you want,” and gets to watch Yuri’s eyes darken. 

“Take off your clothes,” Yuri demands. 

Otabek sits up and drags the thin tank top he’s wearing over his head, throwing it over the side of the bed without ceremony. 

Yuri hums, eyes riveted, as Otabek brings his hands down to unfasten his jeans. He doesn’t hesitate or try to tease, and it’s only seconds before his jeans and underwear are off and discarded. 

Yuri sits up and runs a hand down Otabek’s chest and stomach, stopping just below his belly button. His thumb swipes back and forth against Otabek’s skin, and Otabek can’t help but react, his muscles tightening beneath Yuri’s hand. 

Yuri laughs again, but he doesn’t move his hand down any further, snatching it back to grab the hemline of his own shirt and drag it off. It joins Otabek’s clothes in a messy heap on the floor. 

He collapses back on the bed and lifts his hips into a bridge, and Otabek doesn’t need instructions for this, stripping off the loose boxers Yuri had put on after his shower. Yuri relaxes again and crooks a finger until Otabek follows him down, bodies aligned and touching everywhere. Yuri kisses him. 

The apartment is quiet, and Yuri is warm and relaxed beneath him. Yuri takes his hand and moves it down until it’s wrapped around both of them at once. 

Otabek adjusts his grip and starts jerking them off together. Yuri arches and scratches the nails of both hands down Otabek’s back, a barely there sting, until he’s gripping Otabek’s hips and rubbing his thumbs in lazy circles over the crest of Otabek’s hip bones. 

“Kiss me,” Yuri orders him again. He goes easily, stretches out over Yuri until he covers Yuri’s slim figure with his thicker body, and kisses Yuri with the same rhythm as his hand. Yuri bites into his mouth, moaning. 

Otabek’s own breathing is heavy and punctuated by the movement of his hand. The feeling of Yuri’s cock rubbing up against his own makes everything hotter, and when he squeezes his hand around them tight, Yuri gasps, goes rigid against him, and comes. 

Otabek covers the head of Yuri’s dick with his hand and catches most of the come in his cupped palm. He shifts up, rests his forehead against Yuri’s collarbone, and uses Yuri’s come to jerk himself off, careful to keep a little space between Yuri’s spent dick and his own desperate motions. 

“Mmm, Beka,” Yuri says, nosing against the side of Otabek’s head and pressing a kiss to his temple. Yuri’s hand comes up and cards through the longer hair at the top of his head, his scalp tingling where Yuri’s fingers touch. 

“Hey, Beka, come on,” Yuri says, voice low in his chest, and Otabek’s breath stutters as he comes. His soft cry is muffled against Yuri’s skin, and he manages to catch most of his come, too, knowing that Yuri won’t want it all over him right after showering. 

Otabek stays still for a handful of his own rapid heartbeats, and then he rolls onto his back toward the edge of the bed. Yuri makes a sharp annoyed sound but doesn’t say anything. Instead he takes Otabek’s hand, come starting to spill down onto his wrist, and opens his lips. He makes a show of sucking Otabek’s pointer finger into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing as he drags it out. 

“Fuck,” Otabek says, barely audible. 

“Love your hands,” Yuri says, and repeats the performance on Otabek’s thumb, before kissing the back of his hand and letting it go, relaxing back into the mattress with a smug expression. 

Otabek picks up his tank top off the floor so he can wipe the rest of the come off his skin including, gently, his dick. The harsh texture of the fabric makes him shiver. 

He throws his shirt back to the floor and leans over until he’s close enough that he can drag his tongue over the stray drops that escaped and fell onto Yuri's stomach. Yuri hisses, stomach clenching beneath Otabek's tongue, always so sensitive after coming.

He gets up and fills a glass of water at the tiny kitchen sink. Yuri watches him from the bed as he drinks it down, fills it again, and brings it over to Yuri, who pouts but lifts his head enough to gulp half the glass. 

“Lie back down,” Yuri orders. Otabek sets the glass on Yuri’s bedside table and curls himself around Yuri, who cuddles even closer and then goes boneless. 

“Anything else?” Otabek asks dryly. 

Yuri cracks one eye open and gives him a very inefficient glare. “We have ice time tomorrow,” Yuri grumbles, “Go the fuck to sleep.”

Otabek does. 

*****

Yuri’s last session the next afternoon is ballet, and it runs late enough that Otabek is already off the ice when Yuri slams into the small locker room at the rink. 

“Did you stretch out properly?” Yuri demands, pulling out fresh clothes from his bag before starting to change. 

Otabek nods. 

“Good,” Yuri says. “And don’t forget your phone this time.” 

Otabek doesn’t linger, but he’s breaking in a new pair of skates, and it takes time to properly bandage the newest blisters. Yuri’s dressed and scowling by the time he’s lacing up his boots. 

“I’ll wait outside,” Yuri says and almost runs through Yuuri when he shoves his shoulder against the door to open it. “Out of the way, Katsudon,” Yuri snaps. 

Yuuri’s distracted, phone in his hand, and he stands, startled, for a long second. 

Yuri makes a frustrated sound like an enraged tea kettle. 

“Sorry,” Yuuri squeaks, getting out of his way. 

Yuri sweeps past, throwing, “Hurry up, Altin,” over his shoulder as he goes. The door swings quickly shut behind him. 

“Do you ever--” Yuuri says, and then stops. Otabek raises an eyebrow at him as he gathers up his bag. “Do you ever get tired of him ordering you around?” Yuuri asks, wincing at his own question. 

Otabek can see how that would bother Yuuri, who’s easily flustered, but he also thinks someone dating Victor Nikiforov doesn’t have a lot of room to talk about other people’s relationships. If anyone constantly tried to touch and hug and drape themselves over him like Victor did to Yuuri, he’d stab them with his skate. 

“Beka!” Yuri yells, muffled by the heavy door. “Let’s go!”

“No,” Otabek answers finally and gives Yuuri a nod as he goes. 

Yuuri still looks mystified, but he doesn’t say anything further and waves goodbye when Otabek glances back as he steps through the door. 

“Finally,” Yuri says, kicking off from the wall where he’d been slouching, waiting. “I want to catch the next train.” 

Otabek follows Yuri’s confident steps out of the rink. “Is your grandfather’s flight on time?” 

“Yeah,” Yuri says and scowls at his phone. He grabs an umbrella hanging by the rink entrance. Otabek doesn’t ask if it’s his as Yuri pops it open. 

“Hold this,” Yuri demands.

Otabek takes the umbrella and holds it over them both, protection from the light drizzle.

Yuri pulls his hood up, and the corners of Otabek’s lips twitch when he sees it’s the one with the kitten ears. Yuri grabs Otabek’s free arm, wrapping his own around it so that they’re linked, and uses it to drag Otabek and the umbrella along with him.

“Keep up,” he orders. 

Otabek does.


End file.
